


A talented mouth for eating pie

by quietkerfluffle (giraffeminion)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Autumn, Greg lets out his inner child, M/M, Mystrade Monday, Terrible puns abound, What happens in corn mazes stays in corn mazes, attempts at exhibitionism, fair foods, mystrade, pumpkin as an endearment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 05:41:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26966890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giraffeminion/pseuds/quietkerfluffle
Summary: Greg loves the Fall Festival. Mycroft has some hidden talents. Featuring a corn maze, pumpkin pie, and a frightening number of bad puns.Mystrade Monday: “If I die, I’m never speaking to you again.”
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Lestrade
Comments: 6
Kudos: 51





	A talented mouth for eating pie

Greg laughed, resisting the urge to tug at his boyfriend’s hand and skip through the booths. He squeezed once, instead, and tucked his gloved hand into the crook of Mycroft’s elbow. He was wearing his standard black gloves underneath clumsily knitted fingerless ones, the color of burnt sienna. If pressed, he was to say his sister made them. No one was to know the British Government is a mediocre knitter. 

He scuffed at the leaves piled underneath his feet, delighting in the crackle and crunch. Looking up, Mycroft’s expression was fond, if bemused. 

“Not fond of ‘Fall Fest,’ darlin?” Greg grinned, although it wouldn’t take a Holmes to deduce that one. Mycroft’s posture was stiffer than at ambassadorial meetings, and his eyes flitted back and forth quickly between stalls and revelers and Greg and performers and back to Greg, who was still smiling. 

“You okay?” Greg murmured, meeting his eyes. Mycroft seemed overwhelmed, overstimulated, or at the very least, very out of place. “We don’t have to stay.”

Mycroft shook himself, blinked, and pulled Greg’s hand up to his mouth, kissing the knuckles gently. 

“This is just...not my usual--”

“Haunt?” Greg cut in, and laughed at Mycroft’s exaggerated eye roll.

“Any more terrible puns and you will be,” Mycroft paused delicately, “boo’d offstage.”

“Mycroft Holmes.” Greg thought maybe his soul had left his body. “Are you secretly a Master of Puns?”

“More like a Master of _Pum_ pkins, if you will lead me to the pie table,” Mycroft whispered into his ear, and he shivered at the ghost of warm air. _"Witch_ way?”

Greg wondered what the great Holmes brains might have wrought if they had turned to other outlets. 

“We would have _squash_ ed the competition regardless of what we had chosen.”

It’s Greg’s turn to roll his eyes. 

“Squash is barely a Halloween reference,” he objected.

“Autumn, dear Gregory,” Mycroft returned. “It is, after all, the Fall Fest.”

“Well good thing I’ve already _fall_ en for you,” Greg winked, unable to keep the gloating out of his voice.

“I walked right into that one, didn’t I.”

“And now we can walk right into the corn maze!”

“Lead the way, pumpkin.”

The corn maze would, admittedly, have been a bit of a bust by most people’s standards. Mycroft stepped on foot in, looked both directions, then pointed right. He probably would have navigated them through with nary a wrong turn, but Greg stretched up on tiptoes to whisper in his ear. Two left turns and one spook avoided, and Greg found himself pinned against a hay bale. Mycroft slid one leg between his and bent down to breathe into his ear.

“‘Find me a dead end’?”

Greg fought to keep his knees from buckling. 

“Maybe I wanted to find out if you had nine lives,” he said, more breathless than seductive, but the rather obvious grinding of his hips was clear enough. 

Mycroft looked shocked for a second. 

“Gregory, there are _children_ present…”

Greg used the opportunity to talk up Mycroft’s observational powers and ability to calculate the probability of being discovered. Mycroft tutted in response. 

“Were you thinking,” he bent in closer, “that I would drop to my knees for you, right here in the cornfield?” He nibbled behind Greg’s ear, making him arch up for more. “Did you hope I would bend you over a hay bale and see if you could be good and quiet for me?”

Greg gasped, a small moan stuttering from his lips. 

“You must be,” Mycroft tongued his ear, “quite _bat_ ty,” and stepped back. 

Cold air gusted where Mycroft had left him, and Greg groaned at the pun and the loss. Mycroft adjusted his coat, assessing him coolly. The only indication an outside observer might have picked up would be the high flush of his cheeks, but even that could be attributed to chill. Greg was sure he himself looked wrecked. 

They made it out of the maze without incident. As Greg blinked, trying to get his bearings, Mycroft reached over to pluck a strand of hay from his hair.

“What do you have planned for us next? Pumpkin carving?”

Greg’s imagination conjured images of long fingers deftly wielding a knife and scooping out wet, pulpy seeds. He shook his head. They halted in front of an array of large troughs, filled to the brim with water. Red apples crowded the surface, drifting lazily.

“No. Gregory, you cannot be serious”

Greg quietly explained just how serious he was, and what he would do to Mycroft once they got home, if he complied.

Mycroft arched his brow. “Bobbing for apples?”

Greg nodded. He may not have a mind palace, but images of Mycroft kneeling, hands behind his back while snapping vainly for apples amongst a gaggle of children would be stored forever in his phone, his desktop, and his mind. Maybe he could even get a print. 

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. 

“If I die, I’m never speaking to you again.” But he was already shrugging off his coat.

“What, die from drowning? Germs? You can always come back to haunt me, pumpkin.”

“You are lucky that you are the apple of my eye,” Mycroft returned, kissing Greg on the cheek before joining the queue.

Later, Greg would claim that Mycroft shouldn’t have been allowed to observe the technique of the children before him. Mycroft only raised his eyebrows, taking another bite of the apple before passing it to Greg to slip his coat back on. 

“‘You should try for the world record,'” Greg mimicked, rolling his eyes at the memory of the fangirling spectators. “Although I have always said you had a talented mouth.”

“For eating pie,” Mycroft said primly, offering up a bite. Greg accepted it, then licked the dab of cream from Mycroft’s nose. He blushed. “ _You_ are carrying the pumpkin home.”

Greg eyed the orange monstrosity warily. “Maybe we should buy a wheelbarrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> Playful Greg and Mycroft were such a joy to write. Bless these prompts! Hope you weren't spooked by all the bad puns. That definitely wasn't my ghoul. *cackles* Yes, I adore pumpkin as an endearment. You can pry that from the cold grip of my skeleton after I've passed.
> 
> Oh I did watch a couple apple bobbing videos for research. Highly entertaining ;)


End file.
